.... “long, and lank and brown,
     As in the ribb’d sea sand!”

“Gracious heavens!” I exclaimed, “what would become of the world, if clothes went out of fashion?”

“Humph!—­one half of us, my dear fellow, would commit suicide.”

At the upper end of the bath was a semicircular platform somewhat loftier than the rest, called the Amphitheatre.  This, I learned, was the place of honor.  Here clustered the elite of the swimmers; here they discussed the great principles of their art, and passed judgment on the performances of those less skilful than themselves.  To the right of the Amphitheatre rose a slender spiral staircase, like an openwork pillar of iron, with a tiny circular platform on the top, half surrounded by a light iron rail.  This conspicuous perch, like the pillar of St. Simeon Stylites, was every now and then surmounted by the gaunt figure of some ambitious plunger who, after attitudinizing awhile in the pose of Napoleon on the column Vendome, would join his hands above his head and take a tremendous “header” into the gulf below.  When this feat was successfully performed, the elite in the Amphitheatre applauded graciously.

And now, what with swimming, and lounging, and looking on, some two hours had slipped by, and we were both hungry and tired, Mueller proposed that we should breakfast at the Cafe Procope.

“But why not here?” I asked, as a delicious breeze from the buffet came wafting by “like a steam of rich distilled perfumes.”

“Because a breakfast chez Molino costs at least twenty-five francs per head—­BECAUSE I have credit at Procope—­BECAUSE I have not a sou in my pocket—­and BECAUSE, milord Smithfield, I aspire to the honor of entertaining your lordship on the present occasion!” replied Mueller, punctuating each clause of his sentence with a bow.

If Mueller had not a sou, I, at all events, had now only one Napoleon; so the Cafe Procope carried the day.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE RUE DE L’ANCIENNE COMEDIE AND THE CAFE PROCOPE.

The Rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain-des-Pres and the Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie are one and the same.  As the Rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain-des-Pres, it dates back to somewhere about the reign of Philippe Auguste; and as the Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie it takes its name and fame from the year 1689, when the old Theatre Francais was opened on the 18th of April by the company known as Moliere’s troupe—­Moliere being then dead, and Lully having succeeded him at the Theatre du Palais Royal.